Something There
by lange
Summary: As a fight between the Bronx and the Staten Island newsies erupts, Canada is forced to move to the Brooklyn LH. At long last, CHAPTER EIGHT is now posted.
1. chapitre un

Disclaimer: I don't own _Newsies_, nor am I affiliated with Disney in any way. Thanks to Jazz for reminding me to post this.

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The light refracted through the stained glass windows in a brilliant array of colors, giving the church a vibrant, peaceful atmosphere. Letting the heavy wooden door fall shut behind me, I stepped into the small chapel with the same uplifted, comfortable feeling that made Sunday mornings my favorite time of the week. Dipping two fingers into the holy water near the entrance, I hastily made the sign of the cross. Quickly making my way to my customary position adjacent to the organ, I paused only to genuflect before sitting down in the first row of pews. Mass had already started, and the processional was beginning. Switch held out his hymnal towards me, wordlessly offering to share. I sent him a grateful look before beginning to sing.

Mass was the same every week. I'd come rushing in at the last minute while Switch waited patiently for me, holding my spot. In the eight years that we'd been attending church together, I can't remember a single time in which Switch failed me. Dependable and constant, he was the one part of my life that I'd come to rely totally upon. Everything and everyone else seemed transient, appearing to come and go in an unfathomable, random parade of faces and objects. Switch seemed eternal, as if some kind of steadfast, invariable force compelled him to be in the same spot every week just so I could retain some semblance of sanity and dignity. The idea that one week Switch might not be there waiting for me was unthinkable. It was something that, though certainly not taken for granted, was a given in my life.

Following Mass, Switch and I strolled out of St. Cecilia's talking and laughing animatedly. The day was sunny and bright, and I was in an uncommonly good mood. "Look at me! I'm da king a New Yawk!" I belted out, executing a spontaneous little tap dance on the street. Switch rewarded my efforts with an indulgent smile and cocked eyebrow. "Suddenly! I'm respectable -- heya, Switch! Check 'dat out!" I said urgently, pointing to the alley across the road. At least twenty newsies looked to be involved in a street fight. The sound of angry voices and scattered debris lining the alley bounced off the brick walls. "Let's go see what's goin' on!" I started toward the alley, only to be yanked back roughly.

"Stay here!" Switch ordered harshly. I nodded absently and my eyes wandered back to the alley. Grabbing my chin, he forced my gaze to meet his. "I doan wanna hafta bail youse outta trouble wid Jack again. Those is Bronx an' Staten Island newsies. You go an' get youseself hoit, den youse get da Manhattan newsies involved. B'fore ya knows it, Brooklyn an' Queens'll hafta choose sides too. I ain't gonna let youse start a damn newsies free-fer-all 'cause youse can't control ya'self."

I nodded meekly and winced. "Youse right, a coise. Ise'll stay outta it. But somebody's gotta do somethin'... Soona or lata, it'll get outta hand. Da Bronx and Staten Island has been fightin' non-stop for weeks now." The rapidly escalating violence only a hundred feet away added emphasis to my words.

"Look, heah's what wese gonna do. Youse is gonna run as fast as youse can ta get Jack, an' Ise'll wait right heah fer Spot."

"How's Spot gonna know ta come heah?" I asked in confusion.

"He'll jes' know. Spot always knows stuff like dat. Now go!" he said, gesturing for me to leave. Stealing one last glance at the struggling mass of boys, I tore off in the direction of the Manhattan Newsboys' Lodging House. 


	2. chapitre deux

Stumbling up the wooden steps, I threw open the door to the lodging house before pausing to catch my breath. Kloppman looked up in mild surprise, but smiled warmly as he recognized me. "Hello Ava. You're up awfully early for a Sunday morning, girl," he said, winking at me. Kloppman was the only one in the world besides Switch who knew where I snuck off to every Sunday morning, and he took a kind of paternal pride in "bringing up at least one God-fearing newsie in this lot of street rats and good-for-nothings." In truth, I was probably closer to Kloppman than to any of the newsies in the Manhattan lodging house. He positively doted upon me; really, I was like the granddaughter that he never had.

"Is Jack up yet?" I asked, wheezing and coughing. The painful tightening in my chest had lessened a bit, and I was able to take a few deep breaths. Waiting for the pounding of my heart to slow, I bent over and grabbed my knees. 

"No, but I can go get him if -- "

"Nevahmind, Mistah Kloppman! T'anks anyways!" Forgetting my exhaustion, I jumped up and ran to the bunkroom. Immediately spotting Jack's lumpy form on his bunk across the room, I headed straight for it. Unfortunately, a number of pairs of boots had been strewn haphazardly across the floor the night before. My feet tangled together, and it was all I could do not to fall flat on my face as I hastily stumbled my way to his bed. "Jack! Jack, ya gotta wake up!"

His sleepy eyes opened a few millimeters before closing again. Mumbling a few non-sensical phrases, he rolled over to face the opposite direction. Losing patience, I gave his recumbent body a hard shove. "Jack Kelly, youse gonna get up _now,_ or Ise gonna soak ya 'til ya doan hafta worry about evah gettin' up again," I ordered sternly.

His eyes popped open in disbelief. "Canada?"

"Yeah, it's me. Wese got a problem, Jack. Staten Island and da Bronx is dukin' it out on foity-second street. It doan look good at all, Cowboy. And theyse in _your_ territory, which means youse gotta get some boys tahgedda ta make 'em stop b'fore it toins inta a knock-down, drag-out brawl between all da newsies."

He muttered a few curses and leapt out of bed. Pulling on a shirt, his fingers flew as he deftly fastened the buttons and pulled his suspenders up. "Let's go," he said shortly, grabbing my arm roughly.

"Heya, wait a minute." I shot him a dirty look before pulling my arm out of his grasp. I ran over to the window and threw open the curtains. "MUSH! BLINK! RACE! EVERYBODY!" Groans were heard throughout the room as a number of the boys shielded their eyes and blinked up at me. "Look, I knows it's oily, but youse guys gotta wake up right now. A buncha newsies from da Bronx and Staten Island is fightin' on foity-second street. It's up ta us ta go stop 'em. Spot Conlon and his newsies'll be meetin' us dere. Now go!" I commanded, pointing to the door. The hard look I gave them and the sharp tone of my voice surprised them into action. A dozen or more boys pushed past me on their way out. Soon Jack and I were the only ones left in the room. "Are youse gonna go tahday, or are youse gonna wait fer Frank Connelly ta take ovah youse territory foist?" I asked sarcastically.

He glared at me. "Wese gonna hafta have us a little chat later about youse attitude."


	3. chapitre trois

Twilight fell over New York City as Helen and I bandaged up the worst of the cuts and abrasions earned by the newsies involved in the scuffle that morning. A number of minor injuries and a few major injuries resulted from the fight, none of which prevented the boys from selling their papers that day. Newsies all over the city were seen limping across street corners, calling out the headlines despite sporting brand-new shiners or concussions. Some even had the effrontery to use their wounds to gain sympathy and a few cents from more ingenuous customers.

Amid the initial confusion, a number of our newsies and Brooklyn's newsies had been hurt.  Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly had spent the entire afternoon in peace talks and negotiations with Frank Connelly and Blackjack Ryan, the respective leaders of the Bronx and Staten Island newsies.  When pressed for details afterward, the two only said that there would be a general Brooklyn and Manhattan meeting the next morning.  Spot was to remain in Manhattan for the night, and Switch would take control of the Brooklyn newsies in Spot's absence.   

Racetrack let out a hiss of pain as I gently swabbed a deep cut on his upper back. "Sorry," I murmured, reaching over to re-wet my cloth. "I doan t'ink youse'll need stitches," I offered.

His posture immediately relaxed. Leaning back against me, he sighed in relief. "Good," he said. "Ise not a big fan a needles." 

I was about to respond when I heard a crash from across the room, where Helen had been stitching up a long gash cut into Spot Conlon's shoulder. "Jesus!" he yelled, kicking the bucket of water he had knocked over. "What da hell do ya think youse doin'?" he said angrily, his eyes blazing. Helen looked at him fearfully and helplessly shrugged her shoulders. 

I patted Race on the shoulder and stood up. "Dat'll be enough," I said firmly. "Helen, youse finish up Racetrack heah. Spot, youse come wid me." 

Spot glared at Helen mistrustfully before following me out of the room. "Awright," I said curtly as soon as the door swung shut. "What gives?"

Without even a word of warning, I was shoved up against the wall. "Doan youse _evah_ do dat again," Spot growled, his fingers digging into my shoulders. I could feel his labored breathing as he pressed his body to mine. Blood rushed through my veins, and my heart pounded wildly in my chest. "Spot Conlon doan take orders from _nobody_," he said fiercely, his eyes narrowing. I was only vaguely aware of a doorknob grinding painfully into my spine, but every part of my body in contact with his felt like it was on fire. Heat flooded through my body, making it hard to breathe. Forcing a deep breath, I looked him straight in the eyes. 

"I undahstand," I stated calmly, thanking God that my voice didn't betray the tumult I felt at the nearness of his body. "Please lemme go," I requested quietly.

"Awright," he said roughly, releasing me from his grasp. I reached up to massage my shoulders and forced myself not to grimace. His eyes softened as he watched me struggle valiantly to hide the pain. "Lemme see," he said gently, moving aside the neckline of my dress. His touch was so tender, and I closed my eyes as I felt him run his fingers along my skin. His thumb caressed my collarbone, and the hypnotic sensation increased my drowsiness. I sighed softly.

"I didn't mean to denigrate your authority," I murmured sleepily, unconsciously leaning against him.

"Huh?" he questioned. Receiving no reply, he chuckled. "Dat's okay," he said. "But youse still got patients out dere dat needs ya soivices, includin' meself."

My eyes flew open. "Oh, Ise sorry. I fergot all about dat," I said in embarrassment. My face flushed. Pushing him lightly into a chair, I examined his wound. He didn't allow even the slightest flinch of pain as I carefully stitched up the gash. Finishing up, I made a tie in the thread and cut off the excess. "Dere, all finished," I said, standing up to leave.

"Wait," he said, grabbing my arm loosely. His blue eyes examined mine closely. "What youse said a minute ago..."

"Yeah?" I said stoutly, refusing to waver under his scrutiny.

"What happened ta youse accent?"

"Oh," I said, somewhat abashed. "I went to school until I was nine. I only speak with an accent to avoid standing out." I paused. "Don't tell anybody, okay?"  Even Mr. Kloppman didn't know that secret.

He nodded. Everyone on the streets understood the importance of fitting in. It was simply safer that way. "Hows about I ferget 'bout youse accent, and youse ferget 'bout what I done ta ya oilier?" he offered.

"Deal," I said, spitting into my hand. He shook it, and our eyes met briefly. 

"Now," I declared, starting toward the door, "like youse said, Ise got patients waitin' fer me." Grinning and shaking his head, Spot followed me back into the bunkroom.  Thus went my first one-on-one encounter with the infamous King of Brooklyn. 


	4. chapitre quatre

The first thin shaft of pale sunlight filtered in through the dusty window, gently bidding me arise and begin the day. A light sleeper and early riser, I was always the first to awaken in the mornings. This could have its advantages, not the least of which was a bit of privacy for showering and dressing amongst a troupe of adolescent boys. I flushed a bit remembering what had happened the last time that I had failed to rouse as early as usual. 

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I grabbed a pair of brown trousers off the floor. I quickly slid them on, tucking in my shirt and pulling up my suspenders. Spying my Sunday dress lying crumpled on the dirt-encrusted floor, I sighed in annoyance and mentally reproached myself for having been too sleepy to hang it up the night before. The poker game had run long, and cards were still lying deserted on the floor. The aroma of cigar smoke still lingered in the air, irritating my already red-rimmed eyes. The wooden floor was cool under my bare feet as I padded to Mr. Kloppman's room. Rubbing my eyes, I knocked lightly before pushing open the door. 

"Ava!" he said in delight when he recognized me. "Come on in and join us, dear. Have you met Aidan?" 

Spot Conlon looked completely at home sitting in the cushioned chair across from Mr. Kloppman. Taking one hesitant step into the room, I brushed aside a wave of annoyance; he was reclining a bit too comfortably in what was supposed to be _my_ chair.

"Aidan?" I questioned with a smirk.

"Ava?" he returned smoothly, apparently oblivious to my mockery. Somehow this was even more nettling, and I shifted restlessly in the doorway. Glancing behind me, I searched in vain for something to focus my growing aggravation on. Nothing. Cursing silently under my breath, I pasted a false smile on my face. 

"Sorry ta have boddered youse," I said sweetly. "Ise goin' ta showah now."

"It's quite alright, dear. Please, feel welcome to--" Mr. Kloppman's voice was abruptly cut off as I shut the door. 

Just who did _Aidan_ Conlon think he was, anyway? The most frustrating aspect of his intrusion was the fact that I knew that I shouldn't be angry with him. Nevertheless, I fumed silently as I marched to the washroom. A few of the boys were already milling about, readying themselves for the day's activities. Glaring defiantly in their general direction, I yanked down my suspenders and ripped my shirt out from where it had been tucked. Already beginning to unfasten the top buttons, I stalked angrily toward a shower. Unfortunately, in my haste and agitation I failed to notice Kid Blink exiting the shower before I slammed into him.

"Woah, woah, woah," he murmured in surprise, grabbing my waist to steady me. He leered appreciatively at my open neckline as his dripping hands slid down to my hips.

Too angry to be embarrassed, I shoved him roughly away. "Would youse stop lookin' at me like Ise naked all da time? Honestly, evah since youse opened da showah coitain on me dat one time, it's like youse can't control ya'self. Jes' cut it out," I snapped loudly. All activity in the room halted, some staring in curiosity and others vainly attempting to muffle their amusement.

Kid Blink stared after me as I ripped open the curtain and stomped into the shower. "Sorry," he mumbled, his embarrassment evident in his voice.

Quickly removing my clothing, I tried to ignore the flurry of excited conversation outside the shower. The boys who had witnessed the previous encounter quickly satisfied the curiosity of those who had not. Suddenly all conversation ceased, and the room fell strangely silent.

"_What_ was dat all about?" Spot asked sharply, throwing open the door to the washroom. His voice grew low and threatening. "Answah me _now_."

There appeared to be a great deal of shifting and rustling outside the curtain. 

"Well, uh, dat is--" 

"Ya see--"

"He uh--"

"Shut up! All of youse!" Spot's angry voice rang through the washroom. "What in da _hell_ did youse do ta her, Blink? I want youse ta tell me. _Now_." 

Kid Blink laughed nervously. "Well, ya see, Spot--"

"Not in _heah_, ya Nancy." Spot's voice raised menacingly. "In da oddah room." 

"Oh, right," Blink sobered quickly. "Yeah."

There was dead silence as their footsteps echoed through the washroom and the door slammed shut. The air of tension was almost palpable, and the boys quickly made excuses to hurry up and leave. I leaned back against the tiled wall and sighed wearily.


	5. chapitre cinq

Still angry and more than a little embarrassed, I chose to skip the meeting that morning. It would doubtless be boring and uninformative, and I could always find out everything said and probably more from Switch later on. We told each other almost everything, and as Brooklyn's second-in-command, Switch was privileged to a great deal of confidential information. Instead I slipped out quietly, choosing to spend my morning at Central Park. 

The day was crisp and bright, the early morning air cool and refreshing. It was in fact November, but this autumn had seen unusually warm weather, and the current temperature was more comparable to midmorning in September. The fall colors were brilliant; hues of cardinal red, burnt orange, and pure spun gold were dabbed amongst the trees by an invisible artist's paintbrush. The whole scene was very picturesque, and one would almost believe it to be a part of a painting except for the movement of hundreds of brittle, brown leaves -- each one once again given life by the swirling wind, twirling through midair for a few precious moments before finally settling back to the ground to once again resume their dead and inanimate state. The nondescript white and pink faces of dozens of working citizens of New York passed by me unnoticed as I sought a place to sit and rest awhile.

A wrought iron park bench stood out next to the dark brown bark of an oak tree. Stumbling over, I practically collapsed onto the bench, laying down and staring up at the sky. The clouds overhead seemed to pass by at an unnaturally fast pace, and I wondered where all the time was going. Wasn't it just three years ago that we all seemed so happy, so inseparable? The 1899 strike was the high point of our relationships to one another. We worked together exuberantly and with energy, joking and laughing about the little things that seemed to lose their humor as the years went on. _We were just kids then_, I thought. It was unavoidable. Three years later, we had grown up.

It was those memories of the strike that bound us, kept us chained together so close when the links should have long ago been broken by time. We clung to those memories with every fiber of our beings, refusing to see what we should have: that the other newsboys had moved on. Younger newsies with only vague memories of the strike had moved into the lodging houses of Queens, Staten Island, and the Bronx; the older veterans had long since moved out. Only the houses of Manhattan and Brooklyn were unchanged, like anachronisms in a life that no longer belonged to us. Our time had passed, and yet we refused to let it pass. Jack would be one and twenty in a few months; Spot had turned eighteen not too many weeks ago. I sighed sorrowfully. Who would be the first to find the courage to move on? I had no doubt that the others would soon follow.

The melancholy direction of my thoughts was abruptly cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps. I reluctantly sat up to make room for Switch. I wondered at the fact that I could distinguish his footsteps from a thousand others. He sat down quietly, and minutes passed before either of us spoke.

"Why dintcha tell me?" he asked softly, the hurt evident in his voice.

"Spot told ya, huh?" I asked inanely, the answer obvious. I don't know why I didn't tell Switch as soon as it had happened. Maybe because I had seen all the boys I still regarded as brothers begin to look at me differently over the years, and maybe I was afraid that Switch would begin to too.

"I woulda soaked 'im fer ya, you know dat," he said earnestly, looking into my eyes. "Youse all I have, Canada. I'd do anyt'ing ta prahtect ya."

"Switch, it was a jes' a joke. He din't do nothin' ta me. He t'ought it was jes' one a da guys in dere, dat's all. Dat's not why I was upset, and dat's not why I din't tell ya," I said flatly.

"Den why?" he implored, impulsively grabbing my hand with both of his. I wondered when his hands had gotten so big and rough, and why mine seemed so petite and delicate enveloped in his warm grasp. 

"Because..." I cleared my throat. "Because he stopped lookin' at me like one a da guys. He stahted lookin' at me like a--" I flushed in embarrassment. 

"Like a...?" he prompted.

"Like a woman, okay?" I said in a frustrated tone, pulling my hand away. Understanding dawned on his face, and he regarded me thoughtfully.

"An' dat's why youse mad at him?" he asked slowly.

"Yes!" I cried. "Look, dese are me friends. An' one by one dey staht actin' diff'rent 'round me. An' I doan wanna be treated diff'rently. I knows dey ain't playin' at anyt'ing; dey still t'ink a me as dey friend. Dey jes' look at me body like... like I doan know! I jes' can't stand it."

Switch abruptly stood up, his face growing hard. "Look, t'ings change Canada. Jes' get used ta it. Dey ain't gonna stay da same, and dey sure as hell ain't gonna go back ta da way dey was. Youse got a nice body, even I know dat. An' ya can't be mad at Blink fer noticin' dat neidah. He's still ya friend, Canada. But he's also a man. He ain't lookin' ta hoit ya; he jes' can't help it. Doan go 'round ruinin' yer friendships 'cause ya can't handle bein' a adult."

I watched him walk away with a hollow feeling in my chest until his dark form was consumed by the crowd, lost in a hundred others. And then I made my way to the distribution center to begin my day's work. 


	6. chapitre six

The horizon was a dusky lavender color when I started in for the lodging house. Usually I spent a few minutes looking out at the stars, but a thick blanket of dark grey clouds covered the evening sky that night. Shivering violently, I pulled my thick coat closer to my body and jogged toward the back door. For use in situations where I would prefer my entrance to remain unheard, I had perfected the art of opening the door to exactly thirteen and a half inches, thereby avoiding the loud squeak it made once it was opened past fourteen. Slipping in silently, I quietly tip-toed my way to the bunk that I shared with Helen. None of the other boys were asleep yet, but I figured that as long as I was able to make it to my bed and feign slumber, I would be home free.

Avoiding the loose, creaky boards proved difficult. The boys were in just the other room playing cards and talking loudly, and I was almost positive that I wouldn't be heard. But just to be safe, I stepped only in the spots that I knew to be secured tightly to the ground. I made it almost halfway to my bunk at the back of the room when a match was struck, the brief flare of light illuminating Kid Blink's brooding face. 

"Give it up, Canada. I hoid youse come in," he said flatly. I sighed in defeat.

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on jes' a sec," I said, reaching over to light a candle. A warm glow spread through the room as I touched the burning match to the wick before quickly shaking it out. Sitting down onto the hard mattress, I leaned against Blink and sighed softly.

"I'm sorry," I said, tilting my head to rest on his shoulder. His arm slid around behind me to pull me closer, and I positioned my legs over his lap so that he held me like a child. It felt so good to finally be able to find physical comfort in someone; tears of relief streamed silently down my face as I finally let go of all the fear and hurt that had built up within me for so long. A sense of calm suffused through my body as we sat there together, and I thanked God for giving me this chance to make things right. 

"Ise da one who should be sorry," Blink said quietly. "I nevah meant ta treat youse like some... some floozy. Youse me friend. Youse bettah den dat."

"I loves ya, ya know dat?" I said with a sniff, raising my head to wipe my eyes. "You was da foist Manhattan newsie dat I met, and youse were da foist one ta intrahduce me ta de oddah guys. An' I was jes' so scaihd dat we lost dat friendship because a some dumb joke. An' we din't lose it -- I just had ta realize dat we both got oldah. An' now I do."

Ten minutes passed before either of us moved. Simply sitting there together in silence, I allowed myself to close my eyes and concentrate on the sensation of being close to someone again. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had held me. Finally Blink pulled me closer into a hug, kissing me softly on the cheek. "Now," he said, using his thumb to wipe the rest of my tears. "Doan ya t'ink it's time we joined de oddah guys?" 

I smiled. "Yeah, you go on out dere. Give me a minute ta pull meself tagedda."

"Alright," he said, lifting me up and setting me gently down beside him. "I loves ya too, Canada. I want youse ta know dat. Youse one a da closest friends I got."

"Yeah, yeah. Now, no more a dis mushy stuff," I said with a smile. "Get out dere."

"Yes ma'am," he replied with a grin and a salute. Shutting the door behind him, I turned around and leaned against it. _Thank you God_, I thought.

Gathering a moment to collect myself, I took a quick glance in the mirror. Red-rimmed blue eyes stared back at me from a mess of tangled dark brown hair and pink, wind-burned cheeks. Splashing some water onto my face to even out my complexion, I slicked back my messy hair and ran my fingers through it to smooth it out. Taking one last check to make sure that I was satisfied, I walked out of the room and into the main lobby.

The boys were in an ebullient, spirited mood that night. A number of the guys greeted me enthusiastically as I entered.

"Heya Canada!" Crutchy said happily, hopping down from the stairs to throw his arm around me. "We hasn't seen ya around in awhile! Whatcha been up to?" he asked.

I opened my mouth to reply when a loud crash sounded outside. The door flew open, and a dirty, sweaty boy stumbled into the room. "Fiah," he gasped. "Dere's been a fiah."


	7. chapitre sept

The ragged boy's startling announcement triggered a totally logical and predictable response: mass chaos. Two dozen voices rose in utter confusion, each one shouting for more details and immediate activity. Ignoring their obvious source of leadership, the disorganized mob hollered back and forth in a futile attempt to determine the proper course of action. In the midst of the disorder and pandemonium, the exhausted boy had somehow been forgotten. Shoving my way through the struggling mass, I fought my way to the boy's side. Jack reached him at approximately the same time as I did, and we shared a quick glance of mutual acknowledgement. I nodded knowingly and stepped very deliberately to one side, giving him free rein to control the situation. He shot me a quick smile before climbing onto the front desk.

"Awright, listen up!" he yelled. The room was immediately filled with silence, each and every newsie in the vicinity giving him their complete and undivided attention. "C'mere," he said gruffly, grabbing the boy under his arms and lifting him easily onto the desk. 

"Now, wha's yer name, kid?" he asked.

"Indian," the boy answered proudly. He stood at his full height, straightening his back in an endearing attempt to match Jack's six foot plus frame. Roughly ten years old, the boy's dirt-smudged face was set in a broad grin. This was probably the most important job he had ever been given. I resisted the urge to reach up and pinch his cheeks.

"Oh yeah?" Jack said with interest. "Dey call _me_ Cowboy, but me real name's Kelly. Jack Kelly ta be pre-cise. Now, wheah would dis fiah be located, Indian?"

"Da Bronx Lodging House," Indian responded, narrowing his eyes. "If I evah get me hands on dat doity rat Blackjack Ryan, Ise gonna--"

"Wait, hold on a minute," Jack interrupted. "Youse tellin' me dat _Staten Island_ set fiah ta youse lodging house? Am I right?"

"Yeah, Blackjack an' his no-good newsies boined it right ta da ground. Ain't nuthin' left. Dat's why wese heah ta see youse. Frank Connelly tole me ta tell youse dat we needs a place ta stay," Indian said with a hopeful smile.

"Oh, no. Youse ain't stayin' _heah_," Jack declared firmly, holding his hands up. "Manhattan ain't s'posed ta get dragged inta youse mess, remembah? Youse gotta fine youse own place ta stay. We can't help ya heah."

"Oh," Indian mumbled, his entire body slumping in disappointment. He bent down and hopped off the desk, hanging his head as he slowly made his way to the door. Jack cleared his throat and averted his eyes. There were grumbles of dissent from the other boys, none of which came close to approaching a volume that could be called audible. A wave of compassion ran through me as I took a good look at the boy's tattered clothing. 

"Wait!" I cried, running in front of the little boy and blocking the door. "Jack! Jack, it's _cold_ out dere. Look at 'im. Look at what he's wearin'. Jes' look at 'im, Jack," I pleaded, grabbing a piece of the boy's torn, flimsy shirt with my fist. 

Jack looked, sighing heavily. "Canada, youse doan know wha's at stake heah..." 

I shook my head. "No, I doan t'ink _youse_ do. It's not Manhattan, an' it's not da Bronx dat's at stake. It's yer soul, Jack, an' it's mine too." I paused, letting go of Indian's shirt. "He can sleep in my bunk tanight."

The others watched in stunned silence. Seconds passed slowly as the tension grew. Finally, a soft voice cut through the air, surprising everyone with its unusual firmness.

"Ise'll give up my bunk too," Mush vowed quietly. He looked around to the other guys for support.

"Me too!" Kid Blink chimed in confidently, smiling and winking at me from across the room.

"I will too," Racetrack announced casually, gesturing vaguely with his cigar.

"And me!" Crutchy piped in, eager to be included. Soon all the guys were promising to give up their bunks. Jack smiled ruefully before putting his hands up in a gesture of silence.

"Hold it, hold it," he said. "Youse mean ta tell me dat all a youse is givin' up youse bunks?" 

Two dozen heads nodded vigorously.

"Well, hell," he drawled with a mischievous grin. "Guess Ise'll jes' have ta give up my bunk too den, huh guys?"

"Awright! 'Atta boy, Cowboy!" the guys yelled, clapping their hands and whooping loudly. I smiled in satisfaction.

"Well, Indian. Guess youse beddah go back an' get all a da guys from ya lodging house. Looks like wese'll have enough bunks fer ev'ryone." Jack grinned impishly. 

Indian threw his arms around me. "T'ank youse," he said gratefully, pressing his tiny body to mine. 

"No problem, kid," I replied warmly, touched by the gesture. "Now go!"

Flashing me one last smile, Indian ran out the door. "Hey guys!" he yelled, gesturing to the open door. "Come on in!"

Within seconds, at least thirty-five nearly frozen newsies lurched through the small door. Most were shivering violently, and none were clothed in anything more than thin rags. Jack quickly organized the boys, assigning bunks and distributing what extra blankets and pillows could be found. The throng of pale, quivering bodies huddled together by the fire for awhile before retiring to their designated bunks. 

Having given away my thick coat, I was armed with only a thin sheet and Kid Blink's wool sweater to form my own temporary sleeping space. Unfortunately, every available spot on the floor was already claimed. Some boys had even resorted to sleeping on the tiles in the washroom, and one unidentified newsie was propped up, sound asleep, in the shower. I sighed in defeat. _I really should have taken more time to think this through_, I mused. It was only about eleven o'clock, however. There was still time to get to Brooklyn. Taking one last survey of the available floor room, I made my decision.

"Jack," I whispered, bending down to gently shake his still form.

"Wha?" he mumbled sleepily. "Canada, is dat youse?"

"Yeah, it's me. Ise gonna go ta Brooklyn fer da night, awright?"

Jack suddenly looked more awake. "By ya'self?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Canada, it's night. An' youse a..." he trailed off.

"A what?" I demanded self-consciously.

"Well, uh, youse a relatively attractive young lady," he finished with a slight blush, looking quite unlike the cocky, arrogant leader of Manhattan that I was used to seeing. "An' youse'll get ya'self hoit goin' out at dis time a night by ya'self."

A relatively attractive young lady? No one ever called me that before.

"Ise'll be fine," I responded hastily, standing up to leave.

"Wait," Jack commanded, his arm shooting out to grab my wrist. "Ise goin' wid youse. Ise'll have ta speak wid Spot in da mohnin' anyways. An' I ain't lettin' youse wandah around da streets a New Yawk all alone." 

I nodded my assent, smiling inwardly at his concern. Pointedly directing my attention elsewhere, I gave him a second to stand up and rearrange his belt. He let out a soft whistle as he took a look at the crowded bunkroom. "Heah, follow me," he whispered. Clutching his shirt, I allowed him to lead me through the maze of sleeping bodies. Once we cleared the danger of stepping on some poor kid, I let go of him and allowed him to scrawl a quick note to the others, detailing where we would be and when we would be back. Dropping the pen back onto the table, he grinned and motioned for me to follow him. We tip-toed quietly to Mr. Kloppman's office, where Jack walked softly over to the closet and retrieved a pair of brass knuckles.

"In case dere's any trouble," he explained quietly. "I hide dem in heah so de oddah guys doan know dat I have dem. I doan like ta promote violence, an' I doan like de idea a all da newsies carryin' dese. Dey're jes' fer late-night ex-pa-di-shuns." He dropped the knuckles into his pocket and winked at me. I wondered what kind of late-night expeditions he meant. "Now let's cheese it," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement.


	8. chapitre huit

Author's note: I know that everybody's really big on historical accuracy here, but I honestly have no idea how long it would take someone to walk from the Manhattan lodging house to the Brooklyn lodging house. I do not live in New York. Therefore, for the purposes of this story, I'm assuming (ignoring the existence of the various fanfiction LHs) that both lodging houses are within a few blocks of the Brooklyn bridge on either side. As the bridge is 1.3 miles long, I'm concluding that it would take two newsies (who were obviously accustomed to walking great distances) approximately 25 minutes to walk from one lodging house to the other at a reasonable pace. Please do not give me bad reviews if this conflicts with the actual location of the Manhattan lodging house; it's called poetic license, and I'm using it. 

Author's note 2: I know that it's been a really long time since I've updated this story. To the people who actually read it, I apologize. I have so many ideas swirling around in my head for this story and for other stories that it's been really hard to maintain my focus. This particular chapter took me over a month to write, and I'm still not satisfied with it. If anybody has any suggestions, whether it be to change around a few words or abandon this fic entirely, please let me know. I would really appreciate it. 

Author's note 3: Thanks to Act for giving me the motivation to post this. :-) 

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The harsh autumn wind blew relentlessly through the empty streets of Manhattan, and I clutched the wool sweater Kid Blink had lent me closer to my body. The biting cold stung the frozen, pale skin of my legs through the thin trousers I wore, and I leaned in closer to Jack for warmth. His muscular arm slid around my shoulders and pulled me tightly to him, and I allowed myself the briefest instant to nestle into his broad, warm chest. His thick sweater and wool coat felt soft and warm next to my icy cheek, and the faint aroma of cigar smoke that hung around him reminded me so much of Papa. The vivid, colorful images that I had once had of my father had long since faded, leaving me with only a few lingering memories of a deep, comforting voice and the scent of expensive cigars. 

Jack's embrace was a welcome shelter from the violent gusts that whipped my loose clothing and stung my watering eyes, but I was reluctant to rely on him for very long. I felt too vulnerable pressed so closely to him, and I didn't want him to know how badly I was shivering. The thought of appearing weak in his eyes gave me the resolve that I needed to pull myself from his arms. I set out to distract him from the cold. 

"Heya Jacky-boy?" I grinned mischievously. 

"Yes, sweet-haht?" He smirked confidently, sliding his arm casually around my waist to pull me back to him. 

"Well, foist of all," I declared melodramatically, sliding deftly from his grasp, "doan call me 'sweet-haht.' Da name's Canada, honey. And I ain't nobody's sweet-haht." I batted my eyelashes and grinned impishly. Jack's eyes sparkled in amusement. 

"An' second of all," I continued, reaching up to playfully ruffle his hair, "I betcha anyt'ing dat I can beat you ta de oddah end a da bridge." He scowled and smoothed his hair back down with his fingers. 

"Oh ya do, do ya?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow at the challenge. "And what will ya gimme if I jes' happen ta beatcha, huh?" 

"Well..." I deliberated. "Whaddaya want?" 

Jack grinned slyly as he considered the possibilities. I felt a vague sense of apprehension at his devilish smirk and wondered nervously what exactly I had begun. 

"How 'bout if I win, you hafta declare yer undyin' love fer da foist newsie we see in Brooklyn?" he suggested with a self-satisfied smile. I nodded slowly. That wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be. 

"An' if I win?" I inquired. 

"Den I guess I'll hafta declare _my_ undyin' love fer da foist newsie we see in Brooklyn," Jack concluded with a grin. I made a half-hearted attempt to conceal my laughter before collapsing into giggles. 

"I can jes' see it now! 'Spot, yer sexy blue eyes an' erotic slingshot shootin' make me haht ache and me soul boin. Come ta Santa Fe wid me, an' I promise ta make ya da best wife a man could evah ask fer,'" I teased with a grin. "All da goils'll be devahstated ta heah dat da two cutest newsies in New Yawk ran off tageddah." 

Jack laughed appreciatively. "Aww, Canada. Ise touched. I din't know dat youse t'ought a me as da cutest newsie in New Yawk," he replied in a mock-sincere tone, placing his hands over his heart. 

"Yeah, yeah, Kelly." I arched an eyebrow and gave him a little shove. "Ya know, I nevah said dat _youse_ was da cutest of da two." 

He pretended to look offended. "What? Ya t'ink Spot's cutah den me? What was dat you was sayin' oilier 'bout his 'sexy blue eyes'? If I din't know beddah, I'd say dat youse got a t'ing fer Brooklyn..." 

I blushed. "Yeah right, Cowboy. Ise only met da guy once befoah. Besides, I doan even t'ink he remembahs who I am," I said ruefully. 

"Well, he will aftah ya declare yer undyin' love fer him," Jack pointed out. 

"Foist of all, it doan hafta be Spot dat eiddah of us'll be declarin' our love ta. It jes' has ta be the foist newsie we see, an' dat prob'ly won't be Spot," I responded haughtily. "An' second of all, Ise gonna waste ya, Kelly. So doan be t'inkin' dat I'll be declarin' me love ta _anybody_." 

"Oh yeah?" he challenged. "We'll jes' see 'bout dat. Ya ready ta race?" I nodded in affirmation. 

"Awright," he said. "One... two..." 

"Wait!" I interrupted. 

"What?" Jack snapped, annoyed at the delay. 

"Well, are we goin' on 't'ree' or on 'go'?" I asked innocently. 

"Whaddaya mean?" 

I sighed. "Well, are ya gonna do it like 'one, two, t'ree' an' den we run, or are ya gonna do it like 'one, two, t'ree, _go_' and _den_ we run?" Comprehension dawned on his face. 

"Um... Da foist one," he decided. 

"Awright, you can count off now," I said. 

"Awright." He took a deep breath. "One..." 

I swallowed hard, tensing my muscles. 

"Two..." 

My heart pounded in my chest. 

"_T'ree_!" he shouted, tearing ahead in a fast-moving blur. I took off at only a moderately quick speed, not allowing myself to be tricked into trying to match his pace this early in the run. By the time we had gotten around to racing, we had already made it about three-fourths of the way across the bridge. I judged that there was only about a third of a mile left to race. Setting a steady pace for myself, I trailed behind Jack by about fifteen yards. 

The cold wind against my face was exhilarating, and my feet pounded out a steady rhythm beneath me. Besides turning it into a bet that I could easily win, I had an ulterior motive for challenging Jack to the race. Beads of sweat formed on my cool forehead, the exercise slowly warming up my nearly frozen body. My lungs ached as I forced the cold autumn air into them, but the blood in my veins burned at a feverish temperature. I was going to win this race. 

The edge of the bridge began approaching rapidly, and there were only about a hundred yards left to go when Jack turned to look back at me, his face lit up in an expression of triumph. I gritted my teeth and plunged on ahead. My peripheral vision blurred as I sped up, my legs moving faster and faster beneath me. My heart pounded in my chest, and a thrill ran down my spine as I felt the familiar rush that only running had ever given me. I caught up to Jack within seconds. 

I didn't even have to muster up any last energy reserves. Accelerating easily, I charged on ahead to the end of the bridge a full four or five seconds ahead of Jack. He was red-faced and breathing hard by the time he caught up to me. 

"Good... race..." he managed to utter. 

I smiled broadly, savoring the feeling of victory. Patting him on the back, I spoke soothingly. "Doan worry, Jacky-boy. Youse doan hafta follow t'rough on yer end a da bet. I won't make ya." 

"No," he wheezed, shaking his head. "Jack... Kelly... doan welch... on his bets." 

"Aw, Jack. Dere ain't no way ya coulda beaten me. Ferget about it," I said lightly, wiping the sweat off my forehead. 

"I can't," he replied, breathing more easily now. "I woulda made youse... follow t'rough on it." 

"But dat doan maddah, 'cause dere wasn't no chance dat I woulda lost," I argued. "It was an unfaih race ta begin wid. Ise jes' plain fastah den youse. Now come on. Rest time is ovah." Giving his shirt a gentle tug, I pulled him up and gave him a slight push forward. We continued on at a nominal pace. 

"You ain't mad at me, are ya Jack?" I asked. He didn't reply. 

"'Cause I can't t'ink a any reason ya would be," I continued, then paused. "Unless ya really _did_ have somet'in ya wanted ta tell Spot..." 

Jack tried to hide his grin. "Awright, awright. Ya caught me," he joked. 

I nodded gravely. "Doan worry, Cowboy. I ain't gonna tell no one." He shifted uncomfortably for a moment. 

"You know... you know dat I was only kiddin', right Canada?" he asked uncertainly. 

"Shoah, Jacky," I replied soothingly. "Youse was jes' kiddin'..." 

"No, really," he insisted. "I was." 

"A coise, deah. I knows ya ain't like dat..." I answered sympathetically. 

"Canada..." he warned. "Dat ain't funny..." 

"Ya know, I always t'ought dat Davey was sweet on youse," I remarked innocently. 

"Dat's it," he declared firmly, very deliberately removing his gloves. "I'm givin' ya 'til da count a t'ree." 

"Aw, Jack--" 

"One..." 

"But I was jes'--" 

"One an' a half..." 

"Jack, I was only--" 

"Two..." 

"But Jack, I--" 

"Two an' a half..." 

"No, Jack, please--" 

"Two an' t'ree-quahtahs..." 

"Wait!" I cried. He paused. 

"I'll do anyt'ing ya want!" I blurted in desperation. 

"Anyt'ing?" he repeated in disbelief. I nodded frantically. A slow smile spread across his face. 


End file.
